


Established

by narsus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-04
Updated: 2010-12-04
Packaged: 2017-10-13 12:45:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/137510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narsus/pseuds/narsus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gets the flu, Lestrade turns up to take care of him, and John learns one or two things that he was evidently already expected to know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Established

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat, and obviously in the genesis of it all, to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

It's been two days since the onset of what can only be seasonal flu. Two days of Sherlock wobbling around the flat, pausing to blow his nose loudly on wads of tissue, in between pulling faces at the mugs of Lemsip he keeps drinking, and applying Savlon to his rapidly reddening nose. There's nothing to do but ride it out and finally it looks like that's what Sherlock's made his mind up to do. John hears that rapid-fire sneezes from Sherlock's bedroom, followed by a moan of despair and decides, against his better judgement, to check up on Sherlock before he leaves for work. There's nothing he'll be able to do but his physician’s instinct demands that he at least take a look at his... the patient.

Knocking on the door, John almost hopes that he'll be told to piss off but since there's no reply at all he decides that a quick glance can't hurt. Pushing the door open reveals a darkened room with Sherlock sat up in bed, leaning over his bedside table carefully. On the table John can make out a mug, a small pile of decongestant tablet boxes, a pack of very clearly labelled prescription co-codamol, several nasal sprays, a tube of Savlon and what looks like a tube of lipstick, which John decides must be lip balm of some variety. What also catches his gaze, and holds it, is the glass coaster, or rather, the small bag containing telltale white powder that sits on it. As John watches, Sherlock dips a finger into the bag and applies the powder just inside his nostrils.

"Cocaine?"  
"Analgesic." Sherlock replies in a muffled tone.

Which it is. A topical application of cocaine being useful in delicate surgery, but not in the slightest bit legal as over the counter medication goes.

John sighs. "Just... you know."  
"Might take some later." Sherlock eases himself back down under the covers.  
"Please don't."  
"Helps me sleep."

Of course it does. John shakes his head and quietly closes the door behind him. He can only hope that Lestrade doesn't show up while he's at work.

When John gets back the flat seems undisturbed. Most likely Sherlock has spent the day in bed. John goes to check on him first, deciding that if Sherlock is amenable to the idea, some instant soup might be in order, with toast. Just outside the door of Sherlock's room, John pauses, certain he's heard something, but since Sherlock's already revealed that he tends to make rather mournful noises while ill it's unlikely to be anything more than that. That thought in mind, John pushes the door open quietly, wondering if perhaps Sherlock is still asleep. It takes him a moment to realise that there are two bodies in the bed, one is obviously Sherlock, curled up on his side, but the other is a familiar, grey-haired detective inspector, still apparently dressed, with an arm around Sherlock's waist.

"Come on, gorgeous, your old man needs the loo."

Sherlock apparently lets go of Lestrade's hand and the detective gets out from under the covers. John steps back from the doorway to let Lestrade pass.

"He'll be alright in a few days." Lestrade says in a consolatory tone as he moves into the hallway.

John stares back into the room. The glass coaster and the little bag are still there. There's even a rolled note next to the bag now. Cocaine does have a sound medical application but possession, outside the realm of licensed medical authority, is hardly a good idea. Not that Lestrade seems to be objecting: he can hardly have missed what's probably over a gram in the little bag on the bedside table. Then again, his turn of phrase was as unexpected as that oversight. Your 'old man' is either your father or your husband, depending, and since John is fairly sure that Lestrade isn't claiming to be Sherlock's father, that only leaves the other option, which is fairly well corroborated by his calling Sherlock 'gorgeous' as well. So John does the only sensible thing left to do: he goes to put the kettle on and make some tea.

“If you’re...” Lestrade begins behind him offhandedly.  
“Sure. Milk and sugar?”  
“Milk, no sugar, thanks.”

Lestrade retreats to Sherlock’s room again once he has his tea in hand. John leans against the kitchen counter and cradles his own mug in his hands. Lestrade’s attitude hadn’t been apologetic or explanatory in the slightest, which is enough to make John suspect that his own knowledge of current proceedings had been expected. He finds himself thinking about that long ago conversation over a candle-lit table as a result, and realises that he never did let Sherlock answer the question about whether or not he had a boyfriend. Not that John can imagine Sherlock describing any partner of his as anything as pedestrian as a mere boyfriend, not that he’d necessarily go to the lengths that John can imagine Mycroft employing. Mycroft after all, to John’s mind at least, probably has _paramours_.

John doesn’t know for certain if Lestrade spends the night but suspects that he does, if the early morning noises downstairs are anything to go by. When he makes it down to the kitchen for his morning coffee, Sherlock is alone at any rate, lying on the couch, cradling a mug in his hands. He doesn’t do much more than nod absently in John’s direction and then proceed to ignore him, so John goes about the business of filling himself up with enough caffeine and toast to make the journey to work.

Days later, when Sherlock’s seemingly recovered and is only occasionally given to blowing his nose loudly or swallowing down garish Tesco’s own brand decongestant tablets, the subject of Lestrade’s presence in the flat somehow never seems to come up. Sherlock doesn’t even mention Lestrade other than in connection with his mostly self-absorbed talk of a handful of cases. There’s nothing to indicate anything, not in the tone of his voice or the expression on his face. It’s as if there isn’t in fact anything more between them than a working relationship, that occasionally calls for Lestrade to put his considerable people managing skills to use on Sherlock.

There’s so little evidence of anything else, that when they’re finally called to deal with a case, John’s more or less written the entire episode off as yet another oddity in his life with Sherlock. Even at the crime scene, in their first greetings, there’s nothing to betray anything more than Sherlock’s distain for social niceties and Lestrade’s ability to give concrete direction. The crime is, as Sherlock pronounces, commonplace in the extreme. To the point where there’s very little for him to do other than point out what to him is painfully obvious. Yet, cool observation delivered, inexplicably, Sherlock vanishes. Thankfully, to John’s mind, he doesn’t go far, because outside Sergeant Donovan informs him that all Sherlock’s done is nipped round the corner for a smoke. She adds more descriptors into what would otherwise be rather straightforward directions but John nods and strides off before her tirade can really gather momentum.

Around the back of the building, John spies Sherlock seated on a low wall, cigarette held between gloved fingers. He holds the pack up, open end proffered to Lestrade who stands opposite him.

“You know I’ve given up.”

The packet’s put away without argument.  
Lestrade almost looks disappointed.  
Sherlock takes a drag of his cigarette and exhales through his nose. “Come here.” He pulls Lestrade down by a coat lapel.

John backs away, around the corner, and leans against the wall. Moments later, Lestrade rounds the corner, sees him, makes a brief comment about the cases in passing and then heads back towards his officers. Lestrade’s breath smells of tobacco. The conclusion that suggests to John means that he isn’t at all surprised when he receives a text from Sherlock telling him not to wait up.

In the taxi on the way home John replays that initial conversation in his head. He’d asked if Sherlock had a boyfriend and Sherlock’s eyes had narrowed before John had started babbling. Still, he’d said no. Which might still make sense. A boyfriend suggested a youthful liaison, something new perhaps, maybe even tenuous in some circumstances: ‘your old man’ on the other hand was traditionally your husband or perhaps, in Sherlock’s case, a long established partner. A partner who wouldn’t be ousted by little things like occasional cocaine use, abrasive behaviour or a new flatmate.


End file.
